


as it seems

by chemicalroses



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Author!Jean, Cancer, F/M, Jean is trying to stay positive for Marco, M/M, Mentions of Ereri, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Mentions of other ships, Modern AU, Sad, cancer au, ereri, jeanmarco, mainly JeanMarco, mentions of springles, sick Marco, sorry if some of the medical stuff isn't accurate, springles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicalroses/pseuds/chemicalroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>.</p><p>“I love you,” Jean ran a hand down his face to cup and raise his chin, “And I will never stop loving you,”</p><p>“You’re going to have to, soon,” Marco smiled sadly, eyes glistening with tears.</p><p>“Who says?” Jean tried his best to smile, but decided to kiss him gently instead. “I’ll love you forever, because it’s impossible for me to stop.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	as it seems

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what? I wrote more angst! I'm sorry. It's jeanmarco this time.

**[1:08 AM, Present]**

Jean didn’t know how to start.

He had mulled over all of the options: the usual opener, the charming one, the realistic one (“ _Hi, my name’s Jean, and I am a failure_ ” didn’t seem like such a bad idea at the moment), but they all left bitter tastes in his mouth and Jean couldn’t even bring himself to pick up a pen, let alone use one. The more he thought about it the sicker he felt.

No one could blame him, of course; Marco’s eulogy had to be perfect. 

Jean would’ve never thought that an award winning author like himself would have so much trouble, but for some reason it was inevitable; his hand kept shaking and his bleeding bottom lip was caught in a killer grip between his teeth, and the entire concept of _words_ and how to fit them _together_ seemed foreign. He hadn’t had writers block in years—not since he’d met Marco—and while he wanted to call his procrastination that, he knew it was something else, because there was so much to say but no way to say it. It was like trying to describe Marco himself. But who could describe someone that was too good for the world?

_“Promise me I won’t be a sad story,”_

Marco’s words echoed in his head—the words from months ago, back when they’d first gotten the news. At first Jean didn’t know how his boyfriend could even _speak_ , because “ _Lung cancer, stage four, approximately eight months to live_ ”made his own heart drop past his feet and down a few floors. After thinking about it, though, it made sense. Marco never put himself before Jean.

“Jean,” His voice had been pleading and all Jean could do was look up into those deep brown eyes, fight back unwanted tears, and think _of course_ Marco said _that_ of all things, something from so long ago, at a time so dark.

It was so horribly out of place—so horribly _Marco_ , that Jean almost smiled.

.

**[3:27 PM, Minus Five Years]**

It was a month after they had first met when he had first said those words, after Jean had explained once again that yes, he was the author of the series Walls, and yes, he dedicated the series to his sworn enemy Eren Jaeger, but not for the reason everyone thought.

(The truth was the idea for the series originally came from Eren, who managed to inspire him with one of his video games, and demanded a dedication after the book was written. Obviously Jean refused, and the cocky little shit—lucky as fuck to have a boyfriend who could take down a group of trained fighters single handedly— played the “ _I will sick Levi on you_ ” card—meaning total defeat for Jean, who preferred his limbs attached to his body _thank you very much_.)

“That’s a funny story,” Marco had laughed, “What else do you write?”

Jean had to think about his answer. Normally he would’ve avoided the topic entirely, because his other prompts weren’t half as good as the ones published, and were often written at two AM when he was drunk or pathetically sad; but it was _Marco_ , so naturally the binder of forgotten stories was pulled from lock and key and dropped—completely vulnerable—onto the table.

“These are…”

“Depressing, I know,” Jean had interrupted him, anxiously tapping his fingernails against the tabletop as he watched the other read, “I’m sorry, I know they’re not good, you don’t have to finish them,”

“No, they’re beautiful,” Marco whispered, confusing Jean to the point of checking the text to make sure they were reading the same thing.

“What?”

“They’re sad, but amazing. I love them,” Then he smiled a Marco smile, one that made Jean’s stomach flutter and heart clench so tightly that it turned his entire face red.

“I… I want to write happy things,” He said sheepishly, “It’s just easier to write things that make me want to cry.”

Marco placed the binder down gently, so none of the pages became wrinkled (even though most of them were already pretty destroyed), and turned to playfully poke Jean’s cheek.

“I don’t want you to be sad, silly,” He teased, “What makes you happy?”

“You make me happy,” Jean said without thinking. His face was bright red and smoking, but somehow Marco managed to cup his chin and look straight into his eyes without being burned.

“Then write about the time you spend with me,” He said.

And that was that, because afterwards the book was put away and Marco had to go home, but not before calling up the apartment stairs with a volume so loud the neighbors could most definitely hear:

“Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t make me a _sad_ story, alright?”

His face lit up and the smile grew even wider before he turned and clumsily rushed out the door.

 .

**[2:19 AM, Minus Three Days]**

It wasn’t natural for Jean to be this quiet. He hadn’t spoken since his last conversation with Eren and Levi and some of their other friends, when they were still at the hospital. It had been almost nice, before the doctors started hovering and sending them pitiful looks until one brave one stepped forwards and shook her head, which was apparently doctor code for “ _I’m sorry but whoever you’ve been waiting here for isn’t coming back_ ”.

Everything was blurry after that, but he remembered hearing Eren yelling some bullshit about how unfair it all was, and Levi trying to calm him after he collapsed in tears. Sasha was burying her face into Connie’s shoulder as Historia said something, Jean couldn’t remember for his life what it was, and then bolted from the room—Ymir following close behind. Mikasa and Annie, accompanied by Bertholdt, Reiner, and Armin, all sat in chairs behind him, and he could only imagine what they had done while taking in the news.

Jean didn’t know what he actually did during that moment other than stand there in a haze, blocking out all of the voices except for one—Marcos—playing in his head.

_“This too shall pass,”_

The freckled boy had been sitting in his chair when he said it, the ratty purple one he’d begged for Jean not to throw away and loved more than anything else in their apartment, god only knows why. He was wearing his blue striped shirt and fuzzy gray socks, and the sun was shining just the right way through the window so that the rays made his eyes shine amber.

Jean had just admired him, the way his thinning brown hair fell across his forehead and how his fingers cracked when he was nervous (which proved that yes, _Marco_ was nervous, though he’d never admit it even after his first chemotherapy session). And he was positive that he had stayed quiet for too long, and that he probably had a stupid expression on his face, but he knew that none of it mattered, because time was steadily slipping away and the words were on the tip of his tongue:

_“Hopefully not too soon,”_

.

**[8:34 PM, Minus Six Months]**

According to statistics, only 1% of stage four lung cancer patients live the long life expectancy of five years. And despite those odds, Jean held on to that 1% chance harder than anything he’d held before, because in his delusions, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping that Marco would be one of those lucky people. How much could be done in five years? Definitely more than what could be done in eight months.

“Your head’s in the clouds, Jean,” Connie had said rather bluntly one night, after Sasha had sought out the kitchen and begun stealing random foods to take home.

(It wasn’t _really_ stealing, apparently, because Marco helped her, and “ _Marco can’t steal from his own house,_ ” or so Sasha argued.)

“So what if it is?”

Connie had looked up at him sadly, with a pitiful look; the same look he’d been getting from tons of people lately.

“When everything falls apart you’re gonna hit the ground hard,”

Jean could’ve made an argument. But he didn’t, because Connie’s family had experience with cancer, and at that exact moment Sasha popped her head out from the window to tell them that “ _Marco said it was okay to make cookies but your oven is way too confusing_ ”, which drew them both inside before he could even open his mouth.

.

**[1:14 AM, Present]**

There was a split second where Jean thought he might have something, but his pen turned out to be dry. That gave him enough time to realize he actually didn’t have anything, after all. Just a stupid thought.

He didn’t bother reaching for another pen.

.

**[5:18 PM, Minus Three Months]**

“Am I… Am I ugly?”

Marco had finally asked after Jean had spent two hours begging to know what was wrong. The pale boy shivered at the words, and his light brown eyes snapped up to focus on the sleepy dark ones next to him. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard, because even though he’d lost his hair, was frail and not himself these days, Marco was still the most beautiful thing Jean had ever seen.

“No,” He said, voice hard and reassuring.

“It’s okay if you think so,” Marco whispered, “I don’t want to embarrass you,”

“That could never happen, you know that,” Jean couldn’t take it, the self-hatred slowly creeping into Marco’s life, so he decided to love him twice as much—for the both of them—if that was even possible.

Marco looked at the ground, silent yet still visibly upset.

“I love you,” Jean ran a hand down his face to cup and raise his chin, “And I will never stop loving you,”

“You’re going to have to, soon,” Marco smiled sadly, eyes glistening with tears.

“Who says?” Jean tried his best to smile, but decided to kiss him gently instead. “I’ll love you forever, because it’s impossible for me to stop.”

.

**[11:28 PM, Minus Two Months]**

“Marco,”

It was late and dark, and they were both bundled up in blankets in bed, snuggled as close as possible to stay warm. The moon was bright that night, bright enough so that Jean could clearly see every freckle on the other’s skin. The ill boy was tired, probably more than half asleep, but still managed to open his eyes and give a faint murmur of acknowledgement.

“Will you marry me tomorrow?”

There was a flash of panic that ran through Marco’s eyes, and Jean could see the gears turning in his head; probably thinking about things like time and reasoning and _time_ again, so Jean curled up closer in attempt to quiet the voices.

“Hey,” He repeated in a whisper, “will you marry me tomorrow?”

Marco looked at him, stunned as he further absorbed the words. He seemed to calm the more he thought, and soon after, a teary smile lit up his face.

“Yes,” He nodded, “Yes, I’ll marry you tomorrow,”

Jean held him then, kissing his forehead every so often to remind himself that Marco was still there—if not forever, then in that moment. That moment was enough.

.

**[1:48 AM, Minus Three Days]**

It was sudden, Marco’s death.

The sky was dark from inside the way too bright hospital waiting room, and beyond the doors looked so peaceful and quiet, without anxious conversation or painful groans or machines that wouldn’t stop beeping. Jean had been leaning against a white wall; arms crossed, eyes unblinking, staring at the dark silhouettes of trees. He couldn’t remember what he was thinking about, but he knew he was treasuring the moment, because ignorance was bliss.

The longer he didn’t know the condition, the longer Marco could be alive.

It was hard to concentrate on being peaceful, because his wedding ring felt heavy on his finger and all his thoughts looped back to the last time he’d seen Marco, crying in a hospital bed, tubes in his nose and needles in his arm, smiling about god knows what.

“I love you Jean,” He had struggled to say.

“This isn’t goodbye,” Jean was quick to reassure him, even though the promise was empty.

“You’ll smile for me, right?” Marco ignored him, trailing a weak hand through Jean’s messy hair. He leaned into the touch, breaths growing more and more unsteady as he realized how little time they had left.

“Yeah,” He choked, “Yeah, I’ll smile for you,”

“Promise?”

“Promise,”

Marco didn’t say anything after that, his lips just pulled up in a smile and his eyes drifted shut, hand relaxing in Jean’s grasp.

Then he was in the waiting room, staring at bare trees and waiting tensely for inevitable news.

_This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass._

It wasn’t as shocking as it was agonizing, the information. The nurse was straightforward and to the point, and Jean thought he’d cry right off the bat, but he didn’t. Instead his whole body went cold, like he was drowning in adrenaline.  His pulse skyrocketed as he realized what it meant, and he instantly felt the need to climb on top of the building and jump off of it.

He didn’t though, partially because of his promise to Marco, but mostly because he fainted soon after the thought.

.

**[1:30 AM, Present]**

Jean didn’t want to write a eulogy. He didn’t want to because there was no point—everyone already knew how amazing Marco was, they didn’t need to be reminded. Plus, his crappy writing didn’t do Marco justice.

It had gotten to the point where his head was throbbing even after taking four Advil, his back was stuck hunched over his desk, and his hand was nearly bleeding from the broken pen.

 _That’s enough_ , He finally thought, _I’m done_.

And he didn’t get the rush of inspiration the hero did at the end of the movie, because that didn’t happen in real life. Instead, he placed the empty notebook onto the floor, tossed the inkless pen into the nearest garbage, and closed his eyes, because if Marco had taught him anything, it was that life was better after falling asleep.

He didn’t know if it was due to just alcohol or the smell of the familiar blue striped shirt against his skin making him sensitive, but that night he fell asleep in tears, praying to every god of every religion that Marco was still happy.

.

**[8:08 AM, Plus Six Months]**

There wasn’t that much to say.

His love had died and he was fucking depressed. There were scars on his wrists and dark circles under his eyes. There were days when he couldn’t get out of bed and had to control his breathing in order to see straight. There were days where Eren and Connie had to drag him out of the house to hang out or see a movie. While Jean appreciated their efforts, he’d much rather be alone.

(He tried telling Eren this once, but couldn’t go through with it. It was the first and only time he’d seen Eren cry. Jean hoped it’d be the last.)

He stood on his balcony that night, _their_ balcony, and looked at the sun. It was blinding and he could almost hear Marco saying “ _don’t look for too long, you’ll hurt your eyes_ ”. So he walked inside and made his usual caramel coffee, then sat in the ratty purple armchair he’d never, _ever_ , throw away. His eyes were duller now, and his will to live was very weak. Smiling was painful and genuine laughs were rare.

Of course, despite that, he did his best. He had a promise to fulfill.  

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you have a request, feel free to leave a comment!


End file.
